Feedjit

Thursday, March 31, 2011

Today I would write about nothing. Have you read one, an article about nothing? I haven’t, and so if you already did, please spare me the slap that this wasn’t really an original creation of my shrieking mind once again espousing the term brilliance. This is obviously not a rambling post, a manifesto or a pseudo-intelligent commentary. Just plain nothing. And as the cliché goes, proceed if you’ve got nothing better to do.

Nothing. I look at my cell phone, a black Nokia C3 with scratches on screen and fading characters in a key pad with its nine peso load, and thought that if it is indeed the measure of today’s caste, my head would be chopped first. Ten-tenenen-ten-ten…ten-ten, it ranged. It was a message from Fully Booked that my reservation for this book I’ve been salivating for is on due. I checked my wallet and aside from ATM receipts and ID’s, there was nothing there but a mocking two US dollars, one thousand Korean won and two happy faces of Sergio Osmena.

Nothing. Had I have the money, bongos wouldn’t be banging rapidly in my head and I won’t be found in my room with a mounting laundry on the floor of underpants and suspenders while shooting pigs with bullet birds. I turned the dials of my radio, probably the one from Nikola Tesla himself, and there was Datu’s Tribe rocking like the first time I saw them in a mob. I turned it off. I don’t need more emo-schmucks. I, after all, got more dramas than you could possibly imagine and I don’t need to listen to anything more than that. Maybe that’s why no one bothers to read this blog. Enough is enough, the f--- saying goes.

Nothing. True, it must be selfish that I shopped for new bed sheets and black satin curtains and complain about the bad state of my personal nation where it could be paradise for Butchoy, an eight year old kid with his bag of toys that contains soda crowns, a gnome figurine about sixteen centimeters tall stolen from some barren family garden and a half-used notepad, whose only wish is to eat in what he called a "styrofoam plate with small partitions" in it. But what could be done? I learned to raise my fist in rallies wearing my black Giordano polo shirt and dreamt of ostracizing black witches and wizards of this blue-red-and-white kingdom but was lost from the inertia of dazzling strobes and cups of caramel macchiato.

Nothing. I blog in the middle of gossips, perpetual judgments and happy faces with smiles as wide as a Tarsier’s to no certainty as to why I’m still contributing to this idiosyncrasy of constant self-promotion, no, not on the verge of narcissism as it goes, I believe, way beyond that, and yet continue running on a treadmill like a rat. Was it the magnetism of half-naked bodies? The shameless sexual innuendos? Or the delusion of finding the right love in a wrong place? I hope not.

Today I write nothing and gave you nothing. Nothing, that in the hopes that when tomorrow inevitably pave its way, I could give you something bigger than my man-boobs and my exploding tummy. And before I rant once more about me being “undateable” and how I’m this rejected package of everybody, I would cut loose. Tomorrow I will sue everyone who fabricated lies about me and drew malignant caricature of me in drag. But today, I will masturbate to Elton’s video with his beautiful face in it imagining how I could strangle his smooth neck as I shove my d--- in his mouth, pray the rosary in three languages then go to Quiapo with my tin cans and beg for conscience and coins with my fellow passersby.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

It was only years ago when I discovered my love for jet ski, and starting then, I never miss an opportunity, if there's any, to take ride on that “water scooter” and fire away in the open sea.

Last year, I think, was the peak of my fascination. When Donald, my American cousin in law, learned that I also love jet skiing, he paid for a whole day rent of two jet skiis in Subic. If I'm in love with it, he's obsessed with it! Ang nangyari, ako ang nagsawa at his expense.

DB enjoying the calm sea with a raging fever. This was a day before I got hospitalised for Dengue

Jet skiing gives me a glimpse of freedom. It’s the ability to maneuver whichever and wherever direction you want, claiming the sea like a wide open universe to conquer all for yourself. You look back and you see how far you are from where you came from until it's almost gone. The water gushing on your face, like sprinkles of blessings from the goddesses, admiring and envious of your courage for taking what’s rightfully yours.

Jet ski. Escape. Freedom.

This baby is a Yamaha VX Cruiser with 1052cc displacement

So, how about a ride with me? C'mon! I promise, you'll be safe...

____"Freedom is the only thing we must demand in life. For all good things stem from it."
-Miguel Syjuco, Ilustrado

Friday, March 25, 2011

You dance with your straight male colleagues ala-Masculados as the Batasan PA played "you don't have to be rich to be my girl" with crumpled papers and ball pens flying at your direction from a giggling crowd of press. Managed to whip up a revenge-sex and I'm feeling devilishly triumphant like some villain from a primetime teleserye. Bought Maria Ressa's "Seeds of Terror" and threw coins on a wishing fountain without anything in mind. All these, thanks to the all-great Flying Spaghetti Monster and Elmer, the Greek God of Glue.

In a few days, I will lose my job. I was reduced to the last bit and was insulted by the salary offer since the company cannot carry more the burden of my very small rate. It's always been like that, 80% of experience and 20% of your skills, not minding the fact the you do charity in your own job by doing four positions like news desk, reportorial, technicals then writing, all at the same time. I will lose my job because that's what they want to so I would like to call it an elaborate lay-off. I could do nothing. I'm not a regular employee, all ten of us, as with the thousand case of many media practitioners.

I tried bringing up the tears. I, after all, learned to show compassion for the struggling organization and I did my best to try and keep-up with the fast pace of competition.

I tried bringing up the tears like I used to but all I can muster is a hefty laugh and my crazy shenanigans. Tomorrow I will refuse to do my job and dance away with my Peter Pan friends at Republiq. Next next week I will empty half of my bank account to buy that camera I've been lusting for so long and I already said yes to a trip somewhere in Visayas to take it on a test-drive with my gang.

I failed, I know and I'm waiting for that huge sound of thud to come so I could cry and run to mama and look and sound miserable. I know I could call a few people and tell them what happened and in a month or two I'll get another job, probably. But why am I not having those meltdowns like before? I don't know what I'm expecting or even looking for but something is terribly missing.

Like before when a guy I dated would never call back after. Like then when I lost in a declamation competition back in high school. Like then when my father left to continue his work abroad. Like then when a classmate accidentally broke my mechanical pen.

Friends didn't say "you can do it, hold on" but instead, the fuckers just laughed and said "that's what you get from being so idealistic." Mama didn't say "it's alright anak" but said "kumain ka na, punyeta ka 'pag nagkasakit ka na naman magbabantay na naman ako sa ospital." And what else? My goddamn father called me and said "come here, my boss wants to meet you." You're probably wondering what's the punchline so for your information he's in Bahrain and it fucking martial law there! Goodness!

It was my bestfriend who told me what's happening.

"Bes," she said "that's what you call maturity. And alas, you meet him for the first time."

"Oh boy! Really now? But I refuse to...."

She just shrugged.

When I thought about it, I think I refuse to be mature. Being a child, a kid, is always easier. You think of the things you thought you need. Then you want it. Then you go for it. If you'll have it, you're happy. If not, you moan, you rant and the universe will conspire to deliver it to you because poor you would never stop crying, tears and slimes oozing from nose and mouth and then that's it!

And that, I think, is how it should be! I am kid for fuck sake! So what the hell is happening now?
___

On a lighter note, since I'm a proud uncle, thought I'd share this to you guys.

For a soldier, his pride and honor are his greatest shield and weapon. With the countless struggles, which include rejections, persecutions and physical defilement, in the twenty three years of my life, a lot has been taken from me: a normal family; my manhood; a comfortable life; different chances.

But all through that, I managed to grasp firmly with my pride. Because like what this general who chose to end his life in his own hands said: living without pride and honor is a tragedy bigger than death itself.

I am fine. Don't pity me.

I am me. I am happiness.

To pity someone is to look down upon that person. Compassion and mercy are what it should be, because for compassion and mercy to happen, one must either descend to that person's miserable state or lift him up away from that cauldron of hell.

I am fine. I don't need your pity.

I am me. I will conquer forever.

I will be fine.

12.17am 21st of March│Désolé Boy en route to Purgatorio with Dante and Virgil

Friday, March 18, 2011

A man pasted a placard on his bicycle with his wife's name on it. He roams around, making his way around the rubbles, riding his bike, carrying few photos of his wife kept at the inside of his jacket, asking anyone he comes across if they happen to see her. Anxious passersby with their hurried pace shrug, others shake their heads. And off he goes again.

A family was reunited after three days of search and nervous waiting. Tears gushing in ther faces, they rush to one another then wrap themselves in tight embrace. They couldn't believe it. At the verge of losing hopes, they find peace in the midst of a stricken land at the return of their loved ones.

A father was talking to his wife on the phone, line was disrupted from time to time. He consoles his wife and says not to worry, That he's taking good care of their son well. They were safe and are waiting for the rations to come.

Kono Bokuke is looking for his employees. They were at his store when the rushing sea water devastated their town. Days after the quake, he jaunts one evacuation center to another searching for his people who might've escaped the wrath of raging tsunami. And he succeeded. He found one..two. And still, he longs for more of them. At the end of the day, he wonders, will it be possible for him to rebuilt his business?

Sieco Sato is looking over a space where once his house stood. He recalled as he watched from afar how his 30 years of hard-work that built his house were swept away in an instant, then crushed. He left, head and shoulders down, shaking his head.

***

I'll tell you what I tell people who ask me about the recent tragedies of the world with all the fear of catastrophes and prophetic doom.

I tell them, that the real tragic and most horrific scenes happen everyday. And you know what makes it more gruesome? It's that we are either too busy with all our selfish shenanigans or we simply don't want to care.

Twenty-five thousand people around the world die everyday because of hunger. And then look at our unfinished dinner plates. Look at the wasted bulk of rice at NFA's bunker.

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Probably one of the top coolest hot-spots to stomp it out on the dancefloor nowadays, the crowd there is super dope! I mean, c’mon, it’s a haven for partyphiles like me. The sight of grinding hot girls is just too much (for some reason, I like me some girl on girl action =p).

The space is huge, music is awesome, what else could you ask for?

Another thing I proved from partying there is that I’m abusing Facebook too much. It’ so creepy when you started seeing familiar faces grinning at you who used to be just small display pictures on the net.

One is a long-time crush, print and TV commercial by the name of Z. Another is a photographer/model who offers photo-shoots for what he says “a very affordable and high class standard.” He’s good, honestly and he gave me a tiny “kilig” moment there. He caught me staring shamelessly at him but instead of raising his eyebrow he raised his glass to me like saying “cheers” then winked.

I went there, actually last Saturday (no party for me this weekend since I’m feeling a bit under the weather) to welcome a friend, Angela, from her month-long exile in Singapore.

Angela came back from whoring around that city and I was a bit envious. She resigned from ABS-CBN like me, but then unlike what I did (jumping onto the next job) she treated herself for a vacation after.

I missed her so much that I couldn’t contain myself so I kissed her on the lips. We’ve been friends since we both started our career in the network. I even owe her my life as she was the one who dragged me on the sands of Boracay after passing out from obsessive alcohol abuse on some party back then (the excuse is that. I’m broken hearted then..and still. Lol) all the way up to our hotel room. Dun niya 'ko talo. The bitch never get drunk!

Anyway, I hope you guys could check it out one of these days. I wish I took some pictures but my cousin borrowed my cam and I couldn't grab Angela's photos as it would risk revealing the persona of DB. But still I assure you you’ll gonna have great time with your friends and the people there. It’s a perfect place to leave all the drama behind. Believe me!

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

This blog would be happy. The writer is not suicidal and his epiphanies would be wrapped in a sleek gold wrapper. Brutal verbs would be kicked by his polished Wrangell’s boots and bereaved metaphors would be swallowed like an 18 inch meaty Brooklyn Pizza. My sentences would lack the usual drama so that letters could laugh at its own silliness. Punctuations will often be in exclamations and question marks would trail away in some afternoon love song.

It is March but it’s raining pink confetti of heart-shaped cut-outs like its February. I should write about an evening with my beloved and how much we enjoyed Christina Aguillera’s groove only to end under a single gray blanket, spooning. This is, after all, a humanity of love wrapped in a tight rubber condom; where males elope with men and boys shoot their girlfriends for an attempt of break-up; a world full of lovers in constant slow-motion and a dollying camera in wide full circle without a director that yells “cut.”

It is difficult to write “lightly,” to conform to the demi-gods here and satisfy their carnal lust for feast, other rituals and whatever offerings they prefer.

I should smile as I sip scotch in some dingy bar where a pony-tailed singer/guitarist hums a song written by a frustrated poet.

Understand that I am no blogger. I tell people I'm a writer because I arranged words in a blank slate to earn a living; nothing more and nothing great.

I apologize if I barraged you with my drama concoctions and senseless ruminations of my childish vexations; of how sexually and attention deprived I am. I am, after all, a child, a desolate boy in his early adolescent years trying to fight the Captain Crooks of this Neverland, armed only with my pen and a small bottle of Olay SPF15 with no pixie dusts.

I’m sorry that I can’t write fairytales like most of you do. I apologize that you discover I’m not a prince charming; for disgusting you after seeing that I’m just a pauper with only his tin cans to boast. And I’m sorry if I don’t have a thesis statement for this post because this is supposed to be a happy blog and happiness is spontaneous, yes?

And so to happy thoughts, I give you a blog entry sliding in a winding rainbow where white cotton-candy like clouds puff merrily in a clear blue sky. This blog, dressed in a colorful sequined vest paired with a flared green pants and a precariously pointed white shoes. This blog, the very same blog that squels silently as Phil Younghusband categorically declare in Twitter his most honest and noblest of intention in taking actress Angel Locsin in a dinner date.

The writer will be happy despite a two hundred peso allowance ‘till next payday. The writer will not frown despite not having decent sound bite of Nonito Donaire since Dyan Castillejo snatched him away from the waiting media. The writer will just laugh after another rejection from an eyeball. The writer will put a tattoo on his arm, an icon of a pierced heart with a word etched below that says “love.”

I will write posts in a sing-song measure; like joyous round songs; like candid rhyming cheers.

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

They say once David wrote a song, an accrual of chords that pleased the Lord. I wonder how it goes.

And then I thought, what if I realise those chords and play the same chorus for you? Will it pleasure you?

I sure know nothing about harp, but with a few pluck on my guitar and some taps on the ivory white and smaller keys of charcoal black that is my piano, I can render you a symphony; a delicate revelation of my agonizing love to thee.

Shall I make you a song? Please listen, please.

Let me begin with a major C, a perfect key for my feeble voice. Then I shall trail up to G, falling to major F, only to return at once to C. Then again from C, let the minor fall to A and let the G be the bridge to my climactic chorus.

But tell me. Will a single ballad be enough? Or should I write 73 psalms like David? You need not worry, for even thousands, I'd never run out of music as long as it's for you.

Remaining quiet, are we? Ah, I forgot silence is part of music. And you, my Gallant, is silence.

But I can dream. I can dream that at some point you’ll sing back the melody and we can sing along.

Remember. Remember that in love, it need not be in unison, but a chord of harmonizing notes gathered in a common beat.